When Ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. He was still sitting at the round table, but Rhyming Joe had disappeared from the other side of it. He looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. But the young man who had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. Ralph arose, and went over to the bar.

"Can you tell me where Joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender.

"Joe? Oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. I don't know where he went, sonny." And the man went on filling the glasses, and talking to the other men. Ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:—

"Did Joe say when he would be back?"

The bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the boy repeated the question.

"Mr. Bummerton, did Joe say when he would be back?"

"No, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "I don't know nothing about him."

Ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. He thought it was very strange. He could hardly believe that Rhyming Toe had intended to desert him in this way. He preferred to think that the fellow had become helpless, and that Bummerton had dragged him into some other room. He knew that Joe used to get that way, years before, in Philadelphia. He had seen much of him during the wretched period of his life with Simon Craft. Joe and the old man were together a great deal during that time. They were engaged jointly in an occupation which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which, therefore, required mutual confidence. The young fellow had, apparently, taken a great liking to Ralph, had made much of him in a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully defended him against the results of Old Simon's wrath. The child had come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. He had had a general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by him. Now, however, he felt compelled to believe that Joe had abused the privileges of friendship. The more he thought of it, the more sure he became that he had been deceived and deserted. He was alone in a strange city, without money or friends. What was to be done?

Perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him out of it. He resolved to apply to him.

"Mr. Bummerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't Joe's gone, an' I ain't got no money, I don't see how I'm goin' to git home. Could—could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? I'll send it back to you right away. I will,—honest!"

The man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment.

"Why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for; a reg'lar home for the friendless? No, I ain't in the charitable business jist now. By the way, did ye know that the law don't allow hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? Fust thing I know they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant. Don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? That's the door over yonder, young feller."

Ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped into the street. It was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing up. He stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and wondering which way to go. He felt very wretched indeed; not so much because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived, abused, and mocked. He saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered how he had fallen so easily into it.

On a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and, without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it.

There were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear loud talking and quarrelling in them as he passed by. A man came out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. It frightened him, and he started to run. The man followed him for a little way, shouting savagely, and then turned back; but Ralph ran on. He stumbled, finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side and hurting his wrist. His cap had rolled off, and it took him a long time to find it. Then he crossed the street to avoid a party of drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he had seen from the distance. Down another street there were a number of lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. After he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully the few persons whom he met, he turned again. The streets were growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them, and that was something to be thankful for. Finally he reached a busy, well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief. He had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right, surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open square. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad station, and he hurried toward it. When he reached the door he remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at any rate. He was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which to stop and rest. So he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a bench, and looked around him.

There were not many people there, but they began to come very soon, and kept coming until the room was nearly full. Finally, there was a puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine bell, and the door-keeper called out:—

"All aboard for Pittston, Scranton, and Carbondale!"

The people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. The lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a moment, Ralph recognized her as Mrs. Burnham, and the little girl as her child. His heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet.

The gentleman was saying: "I trust you will reach home safely and comfortably."

And Mrs. Burnham replied: "Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw! I have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there before nine o'clock."

"I will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they crossed the room toward the waiting train.

For a moment Ralph stood, wondering and uncertain. Then there came into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him. He started forward, but they were already passing out at the door. He pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him.

"Where's your ticket, sonny?" he asked.

"I ain't got any," replied Ralph.

"Then you can't get out here."

"But I want to find Mrs. Burnham."

"Who's Mrs. Burnham?"

"The lady't just went out."

"Has she got a ticket for you?"

"No, but she'd give me money to get one—I think."

"Well, I can't help that; you can't go out Come, stand aside! you're blocking up the way."

The people, crowding by, pushed Ralph back, and he went and sat down on the bench again.

The bell rang, the conductor shouted "All aboard!" and the train moved off.

Ralph's eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy. It was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he grieved, but because his mother,—his own mother,—had passed him by in his distress and had not helped him. She had been so close to him that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence. He knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and known him, she would gladly have befriended him. But it was not her assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love. It was the absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all this that filled his heart with heaviness.

But he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his eyes, and began to consider what he should do. He thought it probable that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that some one whom he knew might be going up on it. It occurred to him that Sharpman had said he would be busy in Wilkesbarre all day. Perhaps he had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there was one. It was worth while to inquire, at any rate.

"Yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph's question, "there'll be another train going up at eleven thirty-five."

"Do you know Mr. Sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly.

"Mr. who?"

"Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton."

"No, I don't know him,—why?"

"Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not; but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell."

"No, I don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching himself on the bench for a nap.

Ralph thought he would wait. Indeed, there was nothing better for him to do. It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other place in the city where he could be so comfortable. The clock on the wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. He began to feel hungry. He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. It was very quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph fell to dozing and dreaming. He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery.

The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. He saw, by the clock on the wall, that it was nearly train time. The escaping steam from the waiting engine could already be heard outside. People were buying tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom he knew.

After the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called Ralph to him.

"Find your man?" he asked.

"Do you mean Mr. Sharpman?"

"Yes."

"No, he didn't come in. I guess he went home before."

The door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful. Finally he said:—

"You want to go to Scranton?"

"Yes, that's where I live."

"Well, I'll tell you what you do. You git onto that train, and when Jim Coleman—he's the conductor—when he comes around to punch your ticket, you tell him I said you were to be passed. Now you'll have to hurry; run!"

The kind-hearted door-keeper saw Ralph leap on to the train as it moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room. "Might as well give the lad a lift," he said to a man who stood by, smiling; "he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and left him. Jim won't put him off till he gits to Pittston, anyway."

Ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless and excited. His good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it had quite upset him.

He did not just understand why the door-keeper's word should be good for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was all right.

The train went rumbling on through the darkness; the lamps, hanging from the ceiling, swayed back and forth; the people in the car were very quiet,—some of them, indeed, were already asleep.

By and by, the conductor came in, a slender, young-looking man, with a good-natured face. He greeted several of the passengers pleasantly, and came down the aisle, punching tickets to the right and left, till he reached the seat where Ralph was.

"Ticket?" he asked.

"I ain't got any," said the boy.

"What's the reason?"

"W'y, I lost all my money, an' I couldn't buy one, an' I couldn't see nobody't I knew, an' the man't tended door, he said tell you to pass me up."

The conductor smiled, as he recognized a familiar scheme of the kind-hearted door-keeper, but he said, trying to speak sternly:—

"The man had no right to tell you that. Our rules are very strict. No one can ride without a ticket or a pass. Where do you want to go?"

"To Scranton; I live there," said Ralph, his voice faltering with apprehension.

"Well, I suppose I ought to stop the train and put you off."

Ralph looked out through the car window, at the blackness outside, and his face took on a look of fear.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "I'm awful sorry. I wouldn't 'a' got on if I'd 'a' known it. Do you think you've got to put me off—right away?"

The conductor looked out through the window, too.

"Well," he said, "it's pretty dark, and I hate to stop the train between stations. I guess I'll have to let you ride to Pittston, anyway. You'll get out there, won't you? it's the first stop."

"Oh, yes! I'll get out there," said Ralph, much relieved, settling back into his seat as the conductor left.

The train dashed on through the night, rumbling, rocking, waking the echoes now and then with its screaming whistle, and finally it pulled into the station at Pittston.

True to his bargain, Ralph stepped from the train. Two or three other people left it at the same time and hurried away up the street; then the puffing engine pulled the cars out again into the darkness.

The boy stood, for a moment or two, wondering what he should do now. The chill night air made him shiver, and he turned toward the waiting-room. But the lights were already out there, and the station-master had locked himself into his office. Off to the left he saw the street lamps of West Pittston, dotting the blackness here and there like dim, round stars; and between them and him the dark water of the river reflected the few lights that shone on it. Finally, Ralph walked down the length of the platform and turned up the street at the end of it.

In a minute or two he had reached Main Street, and stood looking up and down it, trying to decide which way to go. On the other side, and a little to the right, he saw a man standing on the corner, under a street lamp, and looking at him.

He was an honest-looking man, Ralph thought; may be he would tell him what to do. He crossed over and went down to where the man stood.

"Please, mister," he said, "I'd like to find a place to stay all night."

The man looked down on him wonderingly, but not unkindly.

"Is it a hotel ye're after?" he asked.

"Well, not hardly. I ain't got any money. I only want a place to stay where I won't be in the dark an' cold alone all night."

"Do ye belong in Pittston, I don' no'?"

"No, I live in Scranton."

"Sure, the train jist wint for there. Why didn't ye go with it?"

"Well, you see, I didn't have any ticket, an' the conductor, he told me to—to—he asked me if I wouldn't jest as lieve git off here."

The man gave a low whistle.

"Come along with me," he said, "it's little I can do for yez, but it's better nor the strate." He led the way up the pavement of the side street a few steps, unlocked a door and entered a building, and Ralph followed him.

They seemed to be in a sort of retiring room for the use of the adjoining offices. A gas light was burning dimly. There was a table in the room, and there were some chairs. Some engineering tools stood in one corner, some mining tools in another; caps were hanging on the wall, and odds and ends of many kinds were scattered about.

The man took down a heavy overcoat, and spread it on the table.

"There," he said, "ye can slape on that."

"That'll be very nice," said Ralph; "it'll be a sight better'n stayin' out in the street all night."

"Right ye are, me lad! Compose yoursilf now. Good-night, an' swate drames to yez! I'm the watchman; I'll be out an' in; it's nothing here that'll hurt ye, sure; good-night!" and the man went out, and locked the door after him.

It was warm in the room, and very comfortable, and it was not long after the boy laid down on the improvised bed before he was sound asleep. He did not wake until the day began to dawn, and the watchman came in and shook him; and it was some moments after he was roused before he could make out just where he was. But he remembered the situation, finally, and jumped down on to the floor.

"I've had a good sleep," he said. "I'm a great deal obliged to you."

"Don't shpake of it, lad," said the man; "don't shpake of it. Will ye wash up a bit?"

"Yes, I would like to," replied Ralph, "very much."

He was shown the way to the basin and water, and after a few moments he came back fresh and clean.

"Ye wouldn't like a bit to ate now, would ye?" asked the watchman, who had been busying himself about the room.

"Oh, I can get along very well without it," replied the boy; "you've done enough for me."

"Whin did ye ate last?"

"Well, it must 'a' been some after noon yestaday."

The man went to a closet and took down a dinner-pail.

"I've a bit left o' me last-night's dinner," said he; "an' av ye're the laste bit hungry ye'll not be makin' me carry it home with me." He had spread a newspaper on the table, and had laid out the pieces of food upon it.

"Oh, I am hungry!" responded Ralph, looking eagerly over the tempting array. "I'm very hungry; but you've been too good to me already, an' you don't know me, either."

The man turned his face toward the door, and stood for a minute without speaking. Then he said, huskily:—

"Ate it lad, ate it. Bless your sowl, there's a plinty more where that come from."

The boy needed no further urging. He ate the food with great relish, while the watchman stood by and looked on approvingly. When the meal was finished, Ralph said:—

"Now, I'll be a-goin'. I can't never thank you enough. Maybe I can do sumpthin' for you, some time, but—"

"Howld your tongue, now! Didn't I tell ye not to shpake of it?"

The boy opened the door and looked out upon the dawning day.

"Ain't it nice!" he said. "I can git along splendid in the daylight. I ain't afraid, but it's awful lonesome in the dark, 'specially when you're away from home this way."

"An' where do ye be goin' now?" inquired the watchman.

"Home; to Scranton. I can walk there, so long as it's daylight. Oh! I can git along beautiful now. Which is the bes' way to go?"

The man looked down at him wonderingly for a moment. "Well, ye do bate the—the—the prisidint!" he said, going with him to the corner of the street. "Now, thin, go up the strate straight,—I mean straight up the strate,—turn nayther to the right nor the lift, an whin the strate inds, follow the road up the river, an' be it soon or late ye'll come to Scranton."

"Thank you! Good-by. I'll al'ays remember you."

"Good-by, me lad! an' the saints attind ye!"

They shook hands cordially, and Ralph started up the street on his long journey toward home, while the watchman turned back to his duties, with his heart full of kindness and his eyes full of tears. But he never, never forgot the homeless lad whom he fed and sheltered that autumn night.